The Boxers Incident
by Sache8
Summary: In a practical joke war, John Sheppard loses out.


**TITLE – **The Boxers Incident

**AUTHOR – **Sache8

**RATING – **PG

**GENRE – **Humor/ Friendship

**CHARACTER/ PAIRING – **John Sheppard, Team

**SUMMARY – **In a practical joke war, John Sheppard loses out.

**DISCLAIMER – **This fic is a mere inspiration of other people's combined genius.

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**The Boxers Incident**

_by Sache8_

Hermiod didn't like John. For whatever reason – John had never been exactly certain why, but he suspected it was because he'd rattled the little guy's cage when he'd suggested Asgard beaming technology be used to plant nuclear bombs on Wraith ships. It hadn't take Hermiod long to figure out whose suggestion this had been.

Or maybe it was because he'd called him naked the first time they'd ever actually come face to face.

In either case, John hated ever having to go into the engine room of the _Daedalus._ The little alien watched him every second with those huge, unblinking, unnerving eyes. Sometimes they would narrow slightly. It was really creepy.

When Hermiod successfully adapted the beaming technology to free Colonel Caldwell of the goa'uld symbiote that had infiltrated Atlantis, Rodney had gone on for days about it. While it was certainly a refreshing change to have Rodney going on about an intellect that wasn't his own, John was privately relieved when the scientist finally got it out of his system.

Not long after that, the practical joke war of Sheppard versus McKay began.

It started small. High school pranks. An alien bug in Rodney's soup, a shower that wouldn't give John hot water. Steadily, they got more creative, employing various cohorts along the way.

When Carson, who was nowhere near vicious enough to conspire in practical joking, was offworld for the better part of a week doing botanical research, John talked one of his support staff, Doctor Merriman, into convincing Rodney that he'd procured some kind of Pegasus-variety wasting disease. The pretty redhead had only been too happy to help out, as Rodney had been hitting on her rather consistently (and rather badly) since she'd arrived three months ago.

Enlisting the help of Ronon, who still found the incident worth several minutes of hearty guffawing, Rodney managed to maneuver John into a marriage with the daughter of the tribal chieftain of P77-8W6, who happened to be about fifteen years older than him. It wasn't until she got him alone in her hut that John got a clue. He'd burst out like a cat on fire, only to find his _buddies_ camped outside, already in stitches with laughter. Then they'd been chased out of town by angry tribesmen armed with some pretty nasty slingshots.

Elizabeth had almost found out about that one.

She was about the only person on Atlantis who _didn't_ know about what was going on. John knew it was only a matter of time till she caught on, and when she did there'd be hell to pay, but for the time being, he wanted to keep having his fun. And his revenge.

This time, he'd gone to Zelenka for help. They programmed the sound system in Rodney's quarters to blare, at several decibels higher than was generally recommended, _'If I Only had a Brain_' from the Wizard of Oz every time he came or went from the room. Before Rodney finally managed to hack through the heavily encrypted security that Zelenka had put on the program, they'd also added Weird Al Yankovic's _Canadian Idiot_ to the mix.

Ronon was teaching John the finer points of some Satedan hand-to-hand combat on the day of the Boxers Incident.

There he was, dutifully improving his combat skills, minding his own business, when without warning, a familiar white light engulfed John's body. His first reactions had teetered between bafflement and annoyance, figuring he was being called to the _Daedalus_ for some kind of emergency, but two seconds later he was still in the gym, two feet firmly planted on the mat, bereft of all his clothes but his boxer shorts.

Ronon, shocked (and slightly embarrassed) at the sight of John in his boxer shorts, only stared bug-eyed for a couple of seconds, before busting a gut laughing.

"McKay!" John shouted, glaring up, beyond the ceiling, beyond the atmosphere, as if hovering above him in the _Daedalus_, Rodney would actually be able to hear him. Glowering, John returned his attention planetside. "He must have gotten that sneaky, bug-eyed little _Asgard_ to help him," John realized, then swore.

Ronon was still laughing.

"Hey, listen, buddy, when you're done being amused at my expense, you want to help a pal out and go get me some clothes?"

"You sure you don't want to go yourself?" Ronon asked when his mirth had (somewhat) subsided.

"Do you know how many people I'll meet between here and there?" John scowled.

"All right, all right."

Every minute after Ronon had departed felt like an hour to John. He sat on the bench, tapping his bare feet impatiently on the smooth floor. They made soft slapping sounds. He watched the door with a wary eye, ready to spring up and hide should anyone but Ronon accidentally come in here and stumble upon him, but given that there wasn't so much as a nook to actually hide _in_, he didn't really know what good it would do. He couldn't even hide behind the opened door like in old spy movies because of those blasted vault-like sliding doors.

It just figured that it was Teyla who found him.

She didn't notice him right away; she was looking down when she walked through the doors, intently rustling through her gym bag in search of something. Then she paused, frowned, and raised her head up slowly, regarding the sight of him with eyebrows that were so high they were almost lost behind her bangs.

Unlike Ronon, Teyla did not burst out laughing. She had a tendency to maintain this infernal calm no matter what life threw at her, which for some reason, was a thousand times worse than Ronon's laughing had been. Instead, the corner of her mouth curled up in an amused, cat-like smile. "Colonel Sheppard?" she asked expectantly.

John stood on his feet and put his hands on his hips, deciding that an attempt to play it cool was going to serve him far better here. He cleared his throat. "Rodney and Hermiod beamed my clothes away," he casually, nodding as though this was as unremarkable as waffles on Monday mornings in the mess.

"I see," she replied, eyes twinkling. "May I ask… why?"

He shrugged. "Further testing of Hermiod's beam-prowess?" he suggested.

"His precision is remarkable," Teyla agreed, matching his nod.

"Yeah."

"I came by for some sparring with Ronon. Is he—?" she began, looking around with querying eyes.

"He, uh, went to get me some clothes. Listen, Teyla," John said, dropping the act and switching over to imploring. "Would you mind standing guard? _Please_? I don't want anybody else wandering in here and seeing me like this."

"Are you certain, Colonel?" Teyla asked. Even she could not repress a wicked grin as her eyes gave him a quick once-over and then a meaningful, flirty, teasing expression. He blushed. He _actually_ blushed.

He was going to kill Rodney.

Teyla relented with a soft laugh. "Certainly I will stand guard for you, John," she said. "Hopefully Ronon will not take too much—"

"_Colonel Sheppard to the control room. Colonel Sheppard to the control room, please."_

John winced at the sound of Elizabeth's voice on the intercom. The 'please' was not a request, but a demand, and he knew, unequivocally, that he was busted.

He scrambled for his radio. "Um, Elizabeth?" he asked on a private channel, "Can you give me a few minutes?"

"No, Colonel. _Now_."

Elizabeth had found out. The fun was over, and there was hell to pay. The worst part was that Rodney ended up with the last laugh.

Still, afterward John made it a point to always show Hermiod the utmost courtesy.

**_The End_**

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**A/N: **Dedicated to **jemo. **The reference to _Canadian_ _Idiot_ was for specifically for her – if you can find her Rodney fanvid to this song I'd highly recommend it – it's a riot. Also, there's a reference to Veggie Tales for those of you who can spot it.

This was a one-time bit of fun, and I won't be writing any more on it.

Feedback is love!

-- Saché


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